Amnesia Reunions
by 221b-badwolf
Summary: After the Reichenbach fall, Sherlock awakens to find that he has no idea who or where he is. He takes over the identity of 'William Frist', and marries a lovely woman. When Doctor Watson, who is investigating the sickness accumulating in his workplace, begins shouting at him with the name 'Sherlock,' John will do whatever it takes to bring his Sherlock back, no matter the damage.
1. Chapter 1-The Aftermath

"_Don't move! Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock's deep baritone voice pleaded over the mobile phone. Standing at the top of the building was Sherlock Holmes, clearly distraught as he spoke to his only friend, John Watson. _

"_Please, can you do this for me?" He begged, tears breaking down his face. _

"_Sherlock, what-" He began. His best friend, the sociopathic genius, was visibly upset. John could only watch as the scene unfolded in front of him. _

"_This is my note. People do that, don't they? Leave a note?" His tone calmed and sounded almost.. peaceful._

"_Leave a note… No.. when?" The terrible realization dawned on him, which he did not accept._

"_Goodbye, John." The slight grin could be heard even over the phone._

"_No-" John began, but it was too late. Sherlock tossed the cell aside, leaned over, and fell._

_The concrete stained. People crowed. No pulse. Dead._

_**~Later~**_

_The fresh grave stone stood tall among all others, John observed. Fresh flowers had been strewn across the grave, signaling remorse for the dearly departed that is Sherlock Holmes._

"_You…" John began, "you told me once that you weren't a hero. _

_There were times I didn't even think you were human. _

_But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... _

_human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you_

_told me a lie, so there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

_But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle,_

_Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead._

_**Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."**_

_**Two years later **_

"I've got to go, Mary, hurry please!" John called down the hall to his beloved fiancee, Mary Morstan.

"One sec, John! I'm fixing my knickers!" She called, her beautiful voice filled their cozy flat.

_Yeah, by the time you're finished getting ready, I'll have ten patients already lined up, _John thought, then chuckled lightly.

"Done!" She exclaimed, clearly proud of her speedy dressing skills.

"You look absolutely _lovely_." John beamed, sweeping her up into his arms and planting a kiss on her delicate lips. She giggled and hugged him tightly.

"Right, don't want to be late!" He reminded her, and partially himself.

After an exhausting day of diagnosing various strangers with various oddities, John watched the clock feveriously as the seconds ticked by. _One more 'till five, come on you! _

As he half-walked-half-sprinted down the seemingly deserted hallway, another doctor called out.

"Doctor Watson?" The voice addressed. _Great, here we go. _John straightened his shoulders and stood up tall, as if he were back in Afghanistan. "Oh, so glad that I caught you! Do you think it's possible that you could help me out, just a little bit, with this extra paperwork?" Doctor Perez was a seemingly nice fellow, sort of annoying, but kind all the same.

John plastered on his 'fake it 'till you make it' universal doctor smile.

"Well, um…" His voice trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"I was just actually going home, to make a

cup of tea for Mary and I." He hinted.

"Oh aren't we all!" Perez chuckled, obviously not taking the bait. _Christ…_

"Alright, fine. But you owe be one." John gave in. _Damn it. _

"You're a life saver, John!" Shouted Perez, skipping towards the exit.

"Yeah, don't I know it." He mumbled angrily. He stumbled back over to his desk, and plopped the mound into its spot.

"Right, let's see what we've got here." John looked up in disbelief. _You're talking to yourself __**again **__John, oh that'll never do. _He could see Sherlock now, giving some sort of complicated explanation filled with words that John would have to research later, to understand why 'humans' talk to themselves while alone. He never considered himself human, did he? _No, no more thinking about him. Out._ With a swish of his hand, John pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the work in front of him. The paperwork included filing for patients administered into the Emergency Care unit. _Strange, why is Perez in charge of filing this stuff? _John sifted through the pile and noted every case. All of them equally unique, and much more interesting than the garbage that is introduced every day in _his _office. The phone rang.

"Hello?" John answered, then cleared his throat. "Who is this?" He did not recognize the number.

"Is this the number of Doctor John Watson?" The other voice inquired.

"This is he." _Probably another sales call._

"We have a 'Greg Lestrade' wanting to speak with you down at Scotland Yard? If you could come down tomorrow afternoon at 1:30 pm, that would be great."

"Tomorrow afternoon," John started, mentally checking his calendar, "Sure, alright. I'll be there." John decided he needed to do some hard-core thinking. Lestrade? Why did Lestrade want to see him? It's been two years since..

"Knock, Knock." John turned in surprise to see Mary standing in the doorway.

"Oh, sorry, I got some extra work dumped on me tonight. I should've called. Sorry." She smiled gently at his lame excuse and brushed a hand through his coarse, blonde hair.

"Will this help?" She grinned as she pulled out two packs of lemon tea out from behind her back.

"Majorly." He sighed in relief.


	2. Chapter 2-The Case

When 1:00 rolled around the next day, John was reluctant to go. He knew what this meeting was going to be about. It was going to be about how he never visits with him, or Mrs. Hudson, or Molly, or anyone connected to Sherlock in any way. He sighed and stared at himself in the mirror. Mary walked over and slung her arm around his shoulder.

"Nervous?" She questioned, raising her eyebrows. "Yeah, haven't seen Greg in a while. Not since-"

She put her hand up to his chin and softly pushed his mouth closed. It always upset him to talk about Sherlock anymore. "It's okay, I know." She smiled at her husband and pecked him on the cheek.

"Toast?"

"Toast? At one in the afternoon?" He paused, failing at suppressing his laughter. She always knew how to brighten anybody's spirits.

"I see toast as an," She hesitated, thinking of the right thing to say, "an anytime snack. No limitations." She grinned and stroked the back of his neck, taking in his soothing warmth.

"I'd love some, but I'd best be off. I'll be back as soon as I can escape the lecture." She nuzzled herself into the crook of his shoulder, flashed him a genuine smile, and left into the living room to read.

Walking into the office of Detective Inspector Lestrade was tougher than he had anticipated. Too many memories tied to this place, tied to Sherlock. He recalled how fast Sherlock moved, his long legs striding out a lot farther than John's. John was much shorter than Sherlock, and seeing the 6'0 man dragging around his 5'6 best friend must've stirred up some laughter. _No, no more thinking about him. He's gone. _Inside the office, sat a silver haired man. He was tall and looked to be about 50 years old. As always, he regarded John with a warm smile and gestured for him to take a seat.

"So, John. I'm sure you're wondering why you're here." He pointed out.

"I already have an idea why." He retorted, albeit rudely. Lestrade looked taken aback, but waved it off, knowing it must be difficult to be in a place filled with so many memories.

"Go on then." He waved, signalling him to continue. The Detective Inspector leaned back in his chair, tipping it slightly.

"Well, I know I haven't been exactly keeping in contact with, really, anyone from the past. I understand that I'm not the only one grieving, but it's not that easy, just picking up the phone and chatting like old times."

"We never chatted!" Lestrade laughed, "It was always Sherlock finding a new way to tell me and the police force that they are idiots, and then solving the crime because the vic put their shoe on differently." John beamed, and so did Lestrade. "Nonetheless, I did regard him as a close friend," The D.I stated, "but that's not why I called you here. You're a doctor, the best one I've ever met, that's for sure." John nodded, suggesting that he continue. "Well, there's been an outbreak of some new disease. We're not all that sure of what it is, but some people are blaming a Bio-Terrorist." _A Bio Terrorist? Where the bloody hell did they get that from? _John looked skeptical, so Lestrade continued on.

"Haven't even gotten to the best part yet," he sighed, "whatever it is, it's getting worse. Patient Zero described it as a common cold, but with each new host, it gets deadlier."

"Christ, that's-" He was bluntly cut off, "Still haven't gotten to the best part. The best part is, it originated in the BioChemics lab off South. Who knows what chemicals contributed to this, or who could've stirred it up in the first place, assuming it is a Bio-Terrorist." He shrugged, "I thought maybe you could have a look, see if the illness had anything to do with chemicals, or whether or not the effects could be helped." John thought for a moment, then spoke up, "Why me? Aren't there hundreds more _qualified_ professionals that you could've called?" Lestrade acknowledged the statement. "Possibly, but no matter how 'professional' they claim to be, you're the only one I can trust enough to allow on the case. Don't want everyone gossiping about a Bioterrorism attack, when nothing is for sure."

"The media would go nuts." John agreed, standing up to leave. "When do I start?" The Detective Inspector grinned. "Now."


	3. Chapter 3-Biochemistry

After numerous failures, the two men finally hailed a taxi. John remembered his taxi rides with Sherlock, how he would always have to pay because the consulting detective **never **carried any money. _Cheapskate, _John chuckled. This time, however, his ride partner paid his share and they proceeded to the Bio lab in complete silence. It wasn't until they pulled in that Lestrade spoke up. "So, here we are then." He noted, awkwardly. "Um, yes. Yes, we are here. Yes." John nodded stiffly. "Right."

Near the entrance, they were greeted by a kind older gentleman. He brought them around to where the first victim supposedly contracted the ailment; the biotech lab. "Right over there is where the first recipient, Mr. Collins, seemingly developed the H.R.A.V." The man stated, gesturing to the room next door. The area around them was filled with white countertops piled with colorful test tubes and high-tech microscopes. Robotic machines hung from the ceilings, looming over John like a persistent cartoon rain cloud. "

The H.R.A.V, sir?" John raised an eyebrow. "The High Rising Aggravated Virus." Another voice chimed in. "Oh, Mr. Frist! Glad you could make it." The two men shook hands and continued speaking to Lestrade. "Mr. Frist is our finest Biochemist, probably the finest in all of bloody England." The tour man boasted. "Oh stop, I'll have none of that, you." The other man chuckled. "It's true though!" Lestrade cleared his throat, attempting to direct the conversation elsewhere. John couldn't help the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. This other man, Frist, seemed oddly familiar. His face entire face was covered by a pair of protective goggles and a sterile mask, but his voice. John knew that voice...somehow. "Back to Patient Zero, if you wouldn't mind." Requested the Detective Inspector. "Of course. Mr. Collins works in the research lab, there." He pointed to the closed off room next door, "In order to go in there, of course, you'd have to change into sterile clothing. Don't want anything contaminated." " 'Course." Lestrade nodded. John was completely lost in thought. The three men stood talking for some time, but he heard none of what was said. _Where have I heard that voice? If I could just get a better look at his face…_ "What do you think, Doctor Watson?" His train of thought was broken. "Hmm? What? Oh, uh.." "I think it'd be a **wonderful** idea, if you and I split up to look around, don't you, John?" Lestrade asked, knowing his mind had been elsewhere as he kindly restated the question. "Oh, absolutely." Lestrade patted him on the back, and strode out the door.

Stumped, John wandered aimlessly through the long hallways, pushing past bustling men and women in white lab coats and protective gear. He decided it would be best to ask around and figure out what types of chemicals were being used in experiments nearby. "So, a bio terrorist?"

A voice emanated from behind him. John jumped slightly, jolted by the sudden noise. "Apologies if I startled you." It was that man, Frist. "No worries. And, we're not quite sure. Where did you hear that nonsense?" John inquired. "It's **obviously** not nonsense if you're still unsure. And, I overheard you and the D.I talking to my boss earlier, the tour man?" John chuckled slightly, _this guy's pretty good. Sort of like.._ "You know, you sound just like someone I used to know. An old friend." _No John, let's not get random strangers involved. Nope._ "Oh really?" John noticed his eyes twist into a smile.

"Speaking of which, what's your name?" Asked John. "William Frist, and you're Doctor John Watson, correct?" "Yes, well, sort of. I'm not really sure what I am anymore. I don't feel like a proper doctor. All I do nowadays is sit in my office and diagnose the stomach flu. Nothing at all like back in Afghanistan," he sighed, "There's just no more…no more.." John thought, searching for the right word, to no avail. "No more.. action?" Frist finished. _Jesus, exactly._

"Spot on." Frist nodded, then suggested, "If you don't love doing what you do anymore, perhaps it's time to move on." His voice was slightly muffled by the blue mask, "What about becoming a surgeon? Lots of action in the E.R." He watched John intently, as he considered the recommendation. "You know, maybe I will. I'll look into it, thank you." John smiled, scrutinizing the man before him. _It's like I've known him forever. Strange.._ Frist placed his hand on John's relaxed shoulder, and peered into his eyes. "The best of luck to you, mate." Frist's eyes twinkled, John noticed, they were five different colors all at once. Blue, green, grey, gold and brown.

Frist nodded and turned away, briskly strolling down the hall. _His eyes.. his voice.. so..familiar. So..unique. So… _John gasped aloud, processing what he had just witnessed. "Sherlock." John whispered, his voice cracking.


	4. Chapter 4-Recognition

_No. Dead. No. Help. _John's mind shut down completely. _Sherlock's dead. Not him, can't be. _Frist had turned the corner just as John's brain switched on again. He raced down the unending hallway, and thrust himself around the corner. Frist's legs were much longer than John's, so he took large strides. _Sherlock. _

"Sherlock!" John screamed, just as he had on that day. That day…

Frist did not react, he just continued to walk, destination unknown. John wheezed and coughed, attempting to catch his breath.

"Come back! Please!" he shouted, still gasping for air. Frist paused and turned to the doctor, cocked his head slightly, and proceeded towards the weary man. Frist reached out a long arm, helping John to his feet.

"Is there a problem, Doctor Watson?" His rich voice sealed the deal. This had to be Sherlock. _Sherlock Holmes is dead. He committed suicide, right in front of me. He's been gone for two years already, and will be gone for many more. _But he had to be positive.

Without thinking, John ripped off the sterile mask and goggles, revealing the man's face. His prominent cheekbones appeared sharper than ever, his unmarred complexion was just as pale as he remembered, his untamed mass of midnight black curls complemented his brilliant eyes. This was Sherlock Holmes, the deceased Sherlock Holmes.

John wasn't sure what to do or say. _What do I say to this man, this brilliant, terrible man. How could he?_

Sherlock/Frist answered that question for him.

"Doctor Watson, are you alright?" The concern showed handsomely on his face.

"D..Doctor.. W..Watson?" John was choking, choking on his own emotions. _Christ._

"Yes, that's right, maybe you should sit down, Doctor." Sherlock/Frist patted him on the shoulder, and guided him to a nearby bench. _I can't breath. _Sherlock/Frist peered into his face, eyes scrutinizing every part of him. John felt naked. "Calm down, Doctor, calm down." He began rubbing his back in circles they way you would a frightened child. He was hyperventilating and knew it.

"I..can't...dead...Sherlock." He stuttered, gasping between every word.

"Shh now, it's okay, that's right." The comforting man was whispering now, rocking gently back and fourth.

"Oy, is he alright?" Another man asked, dressed in a similar getup to Sherlock/Frist.

"Yes, he'll be fine, we're going outside for some air. Help me get him up, will you?" The other man nodded, and together they lifted the exasperated man and carefully set him down outside. Behind the lab was a beautiful garden, filled with pink and orange roses and carnations.

"Thanks, Hopkins." Hopkins nodded and left back around the building. Sherlock/Frist noticed the look of confusion woven into the doctor's face.

"It's a relaxation garden. Dealing with deadly chemicals isn't one of the calmest jobs in the world, you know? Extremely stressful. A lot of us have our lunch breaks out here, and a lot of us just come to enjoy it whenever we have time." John appeared no different than before, the look of absolute bewilderment still plain as day. Then, it happened. The two doctors made eye contact. The tall one's smile was warm and kind, while the short one's glare was as cold as ice.

CRACK!

Everything was spinning. The entire world was circling out of control, and the doctor could see spots. _What did I just do? _John attempted to regain balance, when he heard a moan coming from below his feet. He looked down to see the biochemist, hazarding to sit up. His face was covered in blood and his eyes stained red. _Blood. Red. Blood. That day.._

Someone called in the distance, "Will? Will are you okay?" It was that other chemist, Hopkins. The injured biochemist lifted his arm and signaled that he was fine, although he obviously wasn't. John just stood there, frozen to the spot by the shock of the entire situation. He had gotten angry, upset, pissed off. His presumed dead best friend was standing right in front of him, no disguise, and was continuing to play it off like he had no idea who he was. John knew Sherlock was a sociopath, but he had always thought that maybe, just maybe, he had been shown a side of Sherlock that nobody had ever witnessed. He thought that he had shined a bright light in the dark corners of his superior mind. Apparently not.

"Did he hit you!?" Hopkins shot a deadly look John's way.

"Yes, but it's alright. He's confused. Let's just get him to the D.I so he can go home. He obviously needs rest." Hopkins nodded slowly, not quite forgiving John for harming his friend, but he helped anyways.

The three men walked into the building: The tall, pale one tilting his head backwards; the slender, ginger one who was still frowning; and the short, puzzled looking one, not fully aware of the reality around him. It wasn't until they found Lestrade, that John spoke again.

"Greg, it's..it's.." _How do I tell him? What do I say? Jesus I hit him._

Lestrade raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Yes, John?" _Get him, it's Sherlock! He lied to us, left us to grieve over him so he could go play another game with Moriarty. The cold, calculating son of a-_

"Why are you bleeding?" Lestrade asked. "Oh, it was just an accident. Doctor Watson seems to be in a state of confusion. He should go home and get some rest." John loathed the fact that this man, this heartless man beside him, could play it off so easily. _How has Lestrade not recognized him yet? Oh yes, his face is covered in blood. Forgot about that… _

"Christ, alright. I'm am so sorry about that, he's been having a rough time." John snapped.

"Arrest him! Take him in! It's Sherlock for Christ sake!" Everyone nearby stopped to stare. Lestrade just about stopped breathing.

"That's enough, John. I'm taking you home." His voice was frigid, unbending. It was almost an..order.

Will nobody listen?

"No, just wait!" He pleaded, then turned to Sherlock/Frist.

"You," he accused, "wash up, _then_ we'll see."


	5. Chapter 5-Interrogation

The injured biochemist nodded and strode off towards the restrooms. Hopkins shot John one more scowl and raced off to help. Once they were alone, Lestrade grabbed John by the shoulders and directed him towards the exit.

"Oy, what are you doing?" He fought against the D.I's grip.

"John, he's just an ordinary man. I do realize he has some alike characteristics, but-"

"How do you explain it, then, long lost twin?" John asked in a mocking tone.

"No, just another man who looks similar to Sherlock. Besides, if it were him, wouldn't he have told us by now?" John stared at him in disbelief, then resumed his argument.

"Are you mad!? He _is _Sherlock, and I know you see it too." Lestrade shook his head to say no, but his dark eyes stated otherwise. John continued on, "Don't deny it, you see it just as much as I do, and you haven't even seen his face yet!" As he finished speaking, Hopkins and Sherlock/Frist accompanied the disagreeing men. Lestrade turned to look at the now clean man, and stopped. He stopped everything, breathing, moving, blinking.

"Bloody hell…" He whispered, too quiet for any other's ears. It was clearly Sherlock, one hundred percent.

"You're..you're…" The detective inspector couldn't wrap his mind around the situation. The army doctor was the first to speak up.

"How could you! Leave us straggling for two years, TWO YEARS, SHERLOCK! So you could, what, play another game with Moriarty? You knew we were going to be here, didn't you? So you thought you'd have some fun, is that right? William Frist my left thumb!" It was at that moment that Lestrade grabbed both of the men and dragged them out of the exit, the taller one looking extremely confused.

"But, detective inspector, I need to get back to work." Lestrade glared at the oblivious man,

"It can wait, we have some questions for you. Sit down and shut up." They clambered awkwardly into yet another taxi, and sat in utter silence until reaching the Scotland Yard.

"I want you to keep your head low, don't look at anyone. Got it?" Lestrade's commands were clipped and biting, no room for warmth or understanding. _Way to go, Greg._ The slim accused nodded in acknowledgment, and did as told. _Can't risk Anderson or Donovan recognizing him, ey?_

Upon reaching the solitary, grey interrogation room, John immediately pulled Lestrade aside.

"I have a bad feeling, Greg. Do you think I could, I dunno, sit in?" Lestrade shifted uneasily, an obvious _no_ was approaching.

"Please, I need to hear this. He was..is..er..my best friend." _Was or is? Isn't that the question._

Lestrade thought for a moment, then reluctantly agreed, so long as he didn't attack the defendant.

The man appeared to be distraught, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waited for the D.I to enter the room. When he finally did, Doctor John Watson accompanied him, but kept a safe distance away. Lestrade slapped a hand down on the smooth, metallic table, disturbing the silent appellant.

"So, Mr. Frist, is it?" John rolled his eyes. _Not._

"Yes, sir." He wanted to grab a handful of those thick, dark curls and slam them onto the table, head and all.

"Right, sure." Lestrade elongated the short sentence dramatically, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"Have I done something to upset you, Detective Inspector? I don't see the cause for this questioning." _Smart aleck. _Lestrade sighed again, irritating the already red-faced accused.

"Tell me about yourself, Doctor Frist. Your personal life, work days, schedule. Everything."

"Alright, fine." _Here we go._

"My name is William Tyler Frist, I have been married to my lovely wife, Evelyn, for almost a year now." John almost screamed out loud. _MARRIED!? _Lestrade seemed to have thought the same thing, for he exclaimed, "You're.. you're WHAT!?" The man in question looked genuinely concerned, then replied,

"Yes, sir. Our one year anniversary is coming up this month. She's helped me through a lot, since my-" Lestrade cut him off, "Oh, well..yes, just, Sherlock.." He seemed to be having trouble piecing his sentence together.

"Who is Sherlock, and why do you both keep associating him with **me**!?" John and the D.I exchanged fearful glances. John couldn't take it any longer,

"Can you finish this address; 221B..221B…" He paused, allowing thinking time, "well aren't you going to..." His voice trailed off as he realized that the other man truly had no recollection. His eyes were void of the wonder and curiosity that once occupied them entirely.

"221B..um..no." John felt stinging tears on the rim of his eyes. _No, don't._ One by one, the salty drops poured down his tired face; he dropped his head into his strong hands and sobbed. The tall yet slender man stood, with the permission of the D.I, and placed his hand on the distressed doctor's shoulder. Lestrade took his cue. "I'll be right outside, you two." And left.

John began to shake all over, shuddering and sobbing repeatedly. He whispered as quietly as possible, barely audible for the speaker himself. "221B…" The taller doctor behind him continued to caress his back in a calming fashion. Then stopped. John peered up to see a contemplating Sherlock..well..almost Sherlock. It was like another man was wearing his skin, looking and sounding the same but acting completely opposite. What was said next made John's blood freeze. The tall man stared into the wall, brow creased in concentration, then mumbled, "Bakerstreet."


	6. Chapter 6- A bit off

Before John got another word in, the door to the secured room crashed open. Nobody was in the archway, but bickering could be heard nearby. In a moments notice, a somber man briskly stepped in, followed by an exasperated Lestrade. The new man stood in what seemed to be a highly expensive grey suit, and leaned into a dark umbrella.

"Mycroft, this is a private investigation." Lestrade panted, gesturing to Sherlock and John. Mycroft sneered and turned his back. "Yes, indeed. That's why you allowed a civilian army doctor to speak to the suspect, correct?" The D.I's mouth opened, as if to argue, but decidedly shut it again. "Very good, Detective Inspector. Now then, my brother is to come with me. Surely he isn't a true suspect in this case. A case of which we will be taking over now."

Lestrade glared at Mycroft, "Who's _we _then?" Mycroft chuckled, then turned back to Lestrade, towering over and arching himself forward to speak to the shorter D.I, when the words were stolen right out of his mouth; "The British Government, obviously." A deep voice protruded from the other side of the area. Mycroft immediately turned his full attention to the confident sounding man, his younger brother.

"Why yes, brother mine." Sherlock/Frist stood to face Mycroft, a questioning look on his face. "It has taken me quite a while to find you, brother dear, of course, it would require looking." The younger one continued to remain silent, observing the other man who claimed to be his brother. John was still fixed to the spot, breathing heavily with glazed over eyes. _He remembers Bakerstreet, and Mycroft practically being the British Government himself. Why would he pretend for such a long time? _John could taste the hatred boiling up inside of him.

Mycroft looked wary, confused by the unending silence. In a moments notice, however, the baritone-voiced man spoke up, although his words were slurred. "Mmm..I..ahsmnah." John watched in shock as the other man's knees buckled, and he crashed to the floor. Lestrade sprung into action, pulling the unconscious man away from the elder Holmes brother and near John. Completely ignoring his current fury, John shifted into doctor mode, checking for dilated pupils or an accelerated pulse. Both of which were sentient. Mycroft rolled his eyes in impatience.

"John, is he 'lright?" Lestrade questioned, cautiously observing the motionless man before them. John nodded, "He should be fine, his heart rate is a little faster than usual, and his pupils are slightly dilated, but nothing serious." After a bit, Sherlock/Frist began to stir. He attempted to sit upright, to no avail. John lay his hand down on his chest. "Oy, you'll be fine. Lay back, take it easy. Are you lightheaded, feeling dizzy?" The dazed man nodded slightly, causing his head to apparently ache; he cringed and massaged his temples.

"I'll get 'im some water." The D.I stood and left the room, secretly dying to leave the awkward situation. "Why did you-what happened?"John stuttered; his doctor mode was falling apart. Sherlock/Frist shrugged, "It happens sometimes, only because of little things, not sure exactly what, though. I've had it checked out, but nobody has come to any conclusions yet," he sighed, disappointed, "I believe the last time something like this happened was when I was watching the news one morning, last year I believe. My brain just went numb, and I fell." John nodded, he would do some research on this later. Those symptoms sounded so.. familiar.

Lestrade returned with the water glass. The breathless man thanked him and took it graciously. The D.I nudged John's shoulder, and whispered, "Why don't you two go next door? I'll talk with Sherlock while you sort things out." John agreed, they shouldn't expose Sherlock to everything just yet, in case something really _is_ wrong. The two gentlemen swept out of the room and into another of identical appearance. John shut the door, eliciting an abrupt 'click.' "What the bloody hell is going on here, Mycroft?" Mycroft nodded and sat in the silver chair, resting him infamous umbrella along side. John sat across, waiting for an explanation.

Many things were running through his mind at the time; _Sherlock mentioned Bakerstreet, he mentioned Mycroft's job, and yet he still seems..off.. where was he for the past two years, why did he collapse like that? If only he had just- _ "Ahem." He snapped out of it, surely Mycroft had _some_ answers. "I understand that you're upset, John. In your place, I would feel the same." _Yeah, if you bloody felt __**anything**__._

"However, Sherlock had his reasons, yet you automatically chose to believe that it was.." he paused to study John's face, "..Moriarty. I assure you, it wasn't another 'game' of his." _Okay._ "His jump was falsified, yes, but it was for the greater good of England. Without the so-called 'suicide of genius detective,' Moriarty would've most likely brought upon new enemies and terrorist wars."

John's brow furrowed. _Yes, but-_ "Why, you're wondering?" _Jeez, he's good. _"Months after the 'suicide,' Sherlock came to me. He wasn't keen on explaining, so I don't know much for certain. His main reason for contacting me, was to order me not to look for him anymore. He said that he'd had enough with the surveillance and wanted me to stop. I agreed." '_It has taken me quite a while to find you, brother dear, of course, __**it would require looking.**_' His dramatic entrance made much more sense, now.

"Anyhow, what I do know, is Sherlock planned it because of a threat. We're doing our best to find what exactly that threat was, or to whom." Seeing the pained expression crossing his face, Mycroft uncharacteristically added,"I apologize, John," _An apology? A sincere one, from Mycroft? Whoa._ "I do need my brother to accompany me back to my home, where he will stay for the time being." "Mycroft, he isn't himself. Greg and I both have been by his side for the past hour now, and he hasn't revealed himself. It's almost like.. like he truly believes he's William Frist."Mycroft scoffed at the idea.

"No, no. Wait, hear me out," John paused, catching his breath, "When we brought him in, Greg asked about his personal life. Sherlock said that he was _married_ for almost a year now. That time span corresponds with after the..fall. Then, just before you arrived, I asked him to finish the address of our flat, 221B Bakerstreet, as a sort of test, you know?"

Mycroft nodded, allowing the rambling to resume, "He did it, just before you arrived. He had to think a lot, and I heard him. He said Bakerstreet, though it seemed almost..hard for him to say the words. Didn't you notice," _Of course he did, but oh well,_ "how after you calling him 'brother dear,' he collapsed? If we could just find out more about it, maybe more about the William Frist character.."

Mycroft held up his hand, signalling him to stop. "I've heard enough theories for one day. Truth is fact, John. Nothing will change fact, so nothing will change the truth. My brother left for reasons still unknown to myself, and has been playing a part for far too long." John shook his head.

"No, something is wrong with him. Mentally. I need to help him, and for that to happen, I need you to help me. I don't care if you don't believe me, but give me a chance." Mycroft's expression did not change, frozen like stone. John was becoming frustrated. "Please, Mycroft, he's your younger brother, you of all people should know when something is off." The older Holmes brother contemplated, then gave John an uneasy stare.

"Yes, alright. I suppose something was a bit different behavior wise. I'll give you a chance, set up surveillance, pull information on the character's wife." "It may not be just an act, Mycroft. If it is, he's playing it a little too well. We have to consider the possibility that William Frist is not a character. A lot could happen in two years, physically and psychologically."


	7. Chapter 7- Diagnoses

Lestrade slammed his fist onto the desk. "Stop it, Sherlock. That's enough."

Frist appeared distraught, and retorted, "MY NAME IS NOT SHERLOCK!"

Soon enough, both men were shouting back and forth, both insisting on differing identities. It wasn't until Mycroft and John reappeared that Lestrade paused for air, halting his incredibly unprofessional behavior. John patted Greg on the back, as Mycroft approached Frist. The two of them began whispering and finally, Mycroft nodded in what seemed like an agreement.

"Doctor Watson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I will be sure to make it. Thank you, Doctor." Frist nodded and left the room, shortly followed by the three curious men.

Lestrade was the first to speak up, visibly tensed as he leaned into Mycroft's ear. "What's going on here, Mycroft?"

The older Holmes brother hardly spared a sideways glance at the D.I, before waving him off. Frist waved goodbye and left the building, flagging down a cab and departing. It was at that moment that a long, black limo pulled up to the curb. Mycroft Holmes gestured for the others to follow behind, which they did.

Lestrade paused outside the door, earning him a quizzical look from John. "I..er..I've still got work to do, ya know."

John shrugged and stepped inside the car, while Mycroft crept over to Lestrade's side. Being taller than the Detective Inspector, Mycroft had to bend down slightly to reach his ear, cupping his hand like a schoolboy telling a dirty joke.

Whatever he said, John noticed, had made Lestrade's face burn red like hot coal. Mycroft grinned ever-so-slightly as well, and sat back into the vehicle next to John. Lestrade waved them off, eventually fading into the distance along with the Scotland Yard building. Another blend of grayish brown colors filling John's view.

"So, where are we off to?" John nudged Mycroft gently, getting his attention. If it had been anyone else who had the courage to nudge Mycroft Holmes, one of the most powerful men in all of England, there probably would've been major consequences. In fact, anyone brave enough to simply LOOK at Mycroft would be already shaking in their socks. Not John Watson, however. All in all, it would be a major embarrassment for Mycroft to even attempt to intimidate John, for that never seemed to work on the loyal army doctor, so he just let it go.

"Back to my office, we will need to discuss the happenings of tonight." John raised his eyebrows in surprise and question.

"What are the 'happenings' of tonight, then?"

Mycroft sneered, "Doctor Watson, I'd suggest you ready your finest coat when you arrive home this afternoon, for we are attending a rather important dinner." Realisation hit. _Damnit. Dinner with..absolutely not. I am 300% done here. _

When the cab pulled into an intricate looking building, John knew they had arrived. Nobody was entirely sure of what the eldest Holmes brother did for a living, all that anyone was positive on was the fact that he holds a very high ranking position in the British government, judging by his wealth and the respect he is given no matter where he is. _Probably cuts line in the deli, too._ John forced back a chuckle.

The chauffeur held the door to the limousine open for the two passengers.

Upon entering into the room, John picked up on a few things. For starters, the area was unusually cool, probably to preserve the abundance of books stacked in even piles along the carpet. Another thing was that there was absolutely no sound emanating from _anywhere_. Nothing, nada, zip, zero.

There were at least a dozen other men in the room, but not one was making noise, not so much as a peep. This could be because they were reading, but there was no stirring, no coughing, no shifting or turning pages. Just silence. Heavy, lonely, unnerving silence.

_How does Mycroft even live here? I'd go insane. _John was led into a larger room, guarded by two tall, strong built men in a guard's uniform. They looked like much larger versions of decorative nutcrackers. Yet again, John silently stifled a laugh. Mycroft strides over to a lone desk, made of maple wood and glistening polish. The table is neat, but stacked with paperwork. Cluttered organization.

He sits in a plush, maroon chair and folds his hands just in front of his chin. He stares expectantly, as if he were to have something to say.

"Yes?" He inquires, eyebrows raised.

"Doctor Watson, am I to remind you that this is an incredibly delicate situation, I will be expecting your presence tonight. You are very necessary. As a doctor, you will observe his behavior and diagnose accordingly."

"I've seen this before, I just can't...can't place it." Mycroft shifted slightly, intrigued,

"Afghanistan?"

_**There's blood everywhere, thick, red, life sustaining blood. Searing pain shoots through my body, radiating from my shoulder. "Watson!" The world grows cold. **_

"Doctor Watson?" He snaps his head forward and face Mycroft, he's holding out a glass of water. Traumatic memories of Afghanistan rush back occasionally, but usually only in nightmares.  
"Thanks."He grip the glass, it's cool and solid, shaking in his sweaty palms.

"And, yes, I think so. It was, er, a younger recruit. Kennedy, I believe."  
John can hear his heart beating in my ears.

"Go on."

"He was injured, I was 'patching him up', and he kept saying he couldn't remember anything. When I say anything, I mean he couldn't even remember his own name for Christ Sakes." Mycroft furrowed his brow,

"And later on..?"

"He began to recall a bit, but whenever he did, it was like it hurt him. Constant migraines, he eventually gave up because of the pain. Killed himself, poor sod."

"Is it correct to assume, John, that my brother collapsed today because of… memories?" He nods stiffly,

"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds mad, but yeah, that seems to be it." The older Holmes brother scoffs and stands to leave.

"How would you explain it then, Mycroft? Earlier this afternoon, he mentioned Bakerstreet and fell, unconscious. You asked for my professional opinion and there it is." A red faced Mycroft Holmes freezes to the spot. He's lost this argument, he knows, but he would outlive God just to have the last word.

"Very well, Doctor, a car will escort you home. Greg and I will expect you at seven tonight, dressed appropriately."

"Greg?" _Since when are Mycroft and Greg on a two-way first name basis? _Apparently it was possible for an already blushing Mycroft to redden even more. _I knew it._ Before anymore could be said, Anthea is already guiding a curious John towards the exit, and having him seated in another shaded vehicle.


	8. Chapter 8- Dinner

"Mary, love, d'ya know where my slacks are?" Mary quickly popped her head into the navy blue bedroom, spotting a shirtless John. She sighed in delight and made her way across the carpet to hug her husband. He kissed her forehead and stared into her hazel eyes.

"To answer your question, yes, I do. Hanging in the laundry room behind the washer." She grinned and pecked his cheek, before gracefully striding back in the direction of the kitchen. Sometimes John contemplated how he could be so lucky as to have a woman like Mary Morstan. Well, Mary Watson, as of last April.

A completely understanding character, considering she met John just after Sherlock's suicide, and he was in a rough place. She always listened and cooed him when the time was right. Always hugged him as he cried for his best friend, and assured him there wasn't anything he could've done. When he had told her about the encounter with William Frist, she smiled a bright, happy smile, but her eyes were filled with concern. He caressed her cheek and told her that he would be alright, and not to worry about the evening ahead.

"Just, don't let it get to you, John, okay? You'll get him back." She wrapped her arms around his sturdy figure, breathing in his new cologne.

"I won't, love."

Although, he wasn't quite sure how he would handle this. Having Sherlock by his side again, his tall, lean, handsome Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead. And he wouldn't have the faintest idea who the blonde army doctor is. The very thought of never hearing another one of Sherlock's brilliant deductions made him shiver. Sure, he hadn't heard one in more than two years, but this is different. John had thought he was dead back then, but now, it would be more like he was possessed. Another person living in his body, wearing a mask. It's sickening.

At Seven PM sharp, a cab pulled up in front of the Holmes' estate. John stepped out and paid the cabbie, in a pair of grey slacks, a powder blue button up shirt, and a grey blazer. A soft yellow tie accompanied the up-do, and his short, slightly graying hair was combed neatly to the left side. He looked dashing. Mycroft and Greg were already inside, he assumed. The elder of the Holmes brothers was anything but late. But, to his surprise, the two other guests were nowhere to be seen. _Fan-freakin-tastic. _

**Ding Dong**

The doorbell echoed on within the house, until a young woman opened the door. She was only slightly taller than John, if not the same height, with long brown hair. Her skin was tan and her smile was wide.

"Hello then, Mr. Holmes?" John shook his head and smiled lightly,

"Doctor John Watson." The Scottish woman smiled politely and gestured for him to come inside.

"Sorry, I'm Janine, Will's fiance." _Janine. Hm._

"Jan? Are they here?" A familiar voice fills the air, thick with tension. The man that enters the room is so undeniably _Sherlock_. His hair possesses his familiar curls, light wrinkles below his eyes when he smiles, soft pink lips curved up in a charming fashion. His blue-grey eyes portray sorrows that John could never imagine, a certain kind of brokenness. The two men shake hands and John is led to the dining room. Its just of average space; rounded, wooden polished table complete with six maple chairs.

"Just take a seat, doctor, I'm sure our other guests will arrive soon." The taller man pulls out a chair. John takes a seat, observing the way he moves. Something is different. He lacks his usual note of arrogance.

**Ding Dong**

_Oh thank god. _Lestrade enters first, silver hair combed fashionably. Mycroft follows soon after, dressed in his usual aloof up-do.

"John." Lestrade nods, his hands tremble awkwardly. He's nervous. Sherlock was like a son to him, having helped him through his cocaine addiction. He always blamed himself for his suicide, considering it was the Scotland Yard that had chastised him and named him a fraud.

A fraud that he so obviously was not.

Mycroft appeared not to care much, but John noticed the way he balled his fists when that man addressed him in his deceased brother's voice.

"Have a seat gentlemen, I'll bring out the main course." Sherlock swept into the kitchen area, and began to pour what smelled like a homemade chicken broth of some sort. Janine glanced over to Greg and smirked.

"So, d'ya know anymore about the new disease at Will's work?" John visibly cringed. The way she calls him Will is just so.. unnerving.

"We're not ready to discuss this with the public yet, ma'am." She woman narrowed her eyes.

"Is that not why you're here?" Lestrade blushed,

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then stop wasting my time, my fiance is in danger there. I don't want to arrange a funeral for him, wasn't much fun the first time, was it Mister Holmes? Doctor Watson?" The Scottish brunette turned to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes raised an eyebrow "What do you-"

"You know, for Sherlock. He's changed a bit, hasn't he? Doesn't remember a bit about his past. Clean slate, perfect for me to write a new story." She turned her attention to John.

"Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain."

A shout could be heard from the next room. The group looked up in surprise. A petite blonde woman stood in the doorway. She held a long handgun in front of her, aimed directly at Janine. John recognized the threat instantaneously.

"Mary." He breathed.


End file.
